


The Art of Mourning

by HannaHazzard



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 20:11:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannaHazzard/pseuds/HannaHazzard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Holmes 'death' Watson fears he is losing his mind. Is he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Mourning

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this one after I saw the movie a second time. Hope you enjoy. Sorry for mistakes for english is still not my first language :)
> 
> Disclaimer: sadly none of them belong to me

The Art of Mourning

 

Two days. It had been two days since he had seen his best friend tumbling down the Reichenbach Falls.

And still, John was unable to dwell on the thought that Holmes wasn’t there anymore.

It was like, when he didn’t think about it then the…the incident didn’t really happen. Then he hadn’t really seen Sherlock Holmes pushing himself and his adversary over the railing, down the long fall into the rushing water.

At first he was in shock, Watson had been standing a long time on the balcony, looking down to the deadly rapids, like Holmes would appear any second, swimming to safety.

Logically he knew of course that this couldn’t be true, that the fall was just too…fatal. But he wasn’t thinking rationally.   
It was Sherlock Holmes, after all. That man could think his way out of every dangerous situation, had more lives than a damn cat, he couldn’t just…drop off an balcony.

After that everything seemed even more surreal. He remembered Mycroft coming to him, taking charge of the situation, no doubt having deduced what happened, and before he knew it he found himself back at the place they had met up with the older Holmes after their confrontation in Germany, the one that had almost claimed his dearest friends life already. 

John had immediately retreated to the room he had stayed before, and there he remained.

This was a situation he could not deal with. He had done a lot in his life, he was independent, self-confident, but this was, well…nothing he could deal with.

When he came back to London after he got medically discharged from war, without means, and more importantly, alone, it wasn’t until he met his old friend Stamford and trough him got Holmes as a fellow lodger, that he got his life back in control again, with a place to call home.   
Of course, then he started to join the consulting detective on his cases, and some chaos began on a whole new level, but that was actually, even though he rarely admits it, chaos he enjoyed.

It gave his live excitement back and he never got bored. And, especially, during those adventures the housemates have bonded. They became friends, and even though Watson did complain sometimes, about Holmes stealing his clothes, about playing his violin at unnatural hours, about his experiments on Gladstone, about, well, a lot, they’d become best friends, brothers even, not in blood, but in bond.   
Through many years Sherlock and he had been companions, they’d stood site by site against many, and have always come up at the top.  
And even though everything changed when Mary entered his life, Holmes was still his dearest friend. 

And to think that he had suddenly lost this important person was just unthinkable to him.

So for two days now he had irrationally stayed in his room. And while Mycroft was out, supervising the search for…well the search, and Simza had returned home, to mourn her own brother with her fellow gypsies, her remaining family, John Watson pretended like it hadn’t happened, like when he went back to London, Holmes would be back at Backer street, irritating Mrs Hudson.

But now he ended up on a point where he could only conclude that he had gone insane. For it was the only logical solution.  
The doctor was sitting in chair, where he had spend most of his time here, and was glaring at the couch, half an hour now, for that was all he could do. This couldn’t be real.

At the couch, relaxed, one leg lazily over the other, sat non other than Sherlock Holmes, in perfect health, smoking his pipe and grinning wickedly at John.

“Some time you’ll have to acknowledge me, old boy.” Great, now he was talking as well.

Maybe he should acknowledge him. Talk to him. Would do it gladly if the detective wasn’t so strangely… translucent. Like John could just go through him with his hand to touch the couch Holmes was sitting on. His pipe wasn’t even steaming.  
If Watson believed in the supernatural, he would say his friend was a… no, that couldn’t be. He himself was going crazy, that’s it.

So he kept staring, like his glare would shoo this… this illusion away.

“Watson, we’ve played this starring game for quite some time now, it is getting kind of dull, don’t you think it’s enough?” 

He wouldn’t answer. Talking to the illusion would only confirm his own madness.

“Now come on, you’ll get wrinkles it you keep starring like that,” illusion-Holmes joked, “How long do you want to keep this up? Remember when I first made use of our bartering system? You tried to give me the silent treatment then, and it only lasted, what? One hour?”

“If I hadn’t noticed the hole you’d somehow gotten in my brand new waistcoat, I wouldn’t have talked to you for far longer! That thing was expensive Holmes and after you stole…”

“Borrowed.”

“..used it, it was irreparable!”

“See, suddenly you are talking to me.” 

The doctor sighed in defeat, pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment, calming himself. 

Right, so it was time to approach the problem heads on.

“Holmes, what are you doing here? Are you… are you a ghost?” he didn’t look back at his friend, the illusion, the maybe-ghost, instead chose to keep his eyes shut for the time being.

“Don’t be delusional, Watson. Haven’t I taught you anything? There are no such things as ghosts.” He heard his not-really visitor scoff. 

“But then…”

“I am merely a figment of your imagination.”

“Well now, that is reassuring.” Watson finally looked at the transparent, maybe-present man on the couch. “So I am going insane. Of course it would be you, who’d be part of my decent to mental illness.”

“That’s not fair, my friend, you conjure me up, and then you blame me?”

“I did not conjure you!”

“Keep telling yourself that, old chap, but that won’t change anything.” The fake-Sherlock put his pipe on the table and then stretched out on the settee, looking like he wanted to take a nap. Watson briefly considered about asking him to put out his pipe so nothing would burn, but on second though didn’t saw the point, “I’m just going to stay here, until you make up your mind why I am here in the first place.”

The doctor groaned and buried his face in his hands, “ Can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Sure,” not-Sherlock grinned at him challenging, “Make me.”

Then came silence.

And it lasted well into the evening. Watson passed the time by reading a book about Switzerland he had found lying around and pointedly ignored the figure lying in his room.   
He would have to vanish sometime, if John pretended he wasn’t there, wouldn’t he?

But he didn’t. Transparent-Holmes stayed on the couch, sometimes lying lazily with his eyes closed, sometimes watching Watson unashamed, but never saying a word. This behaviour was very unusual for Holmes. But then again, this wasn’t really Holmes!

After his third yawn, Watson decided it was time to turn in for the night, so he got changed and went to bed, walking past made-up-Holmes, who kept on watching him, without saying a word.

Sinking into the pillows with a tired sigh, he tried to banish every thought concerning Sherlock Holmes from his mind, which was quite the feat.   
He was startled by a voice on his left and his eyes shot open again to look at the detective, who wasn’t grinning anymore, but looked at him with a mix between serious and sad.

“You do know you are in denial, don’t you, dear friend? I won’t be waiting for you in London .”

His words were like a stab to John’s heart and he closed his eyes at the pain, he couldn’t answer. Finally he just turned to his side, his back to ‘Holmes’, and closed his eyes, rather imagining happy times with Mary, willing himself to sleep.

*** 

When Watson woke the next day he was alone, and he sighed in relief. Maybe him going insane was just a bad dream.

He went about his morning business in the adjoining bathroom, freshened up a bit but didn’t bother to put any decent clothes on, just pulled on a robe over his nightwear, he didn’t plan to leave here anytime soon anyway.

“You look horrible. Maybe you should leave this room and go out into the daylight to gain a bit more colour. And the rings under your eyes aren’t really helping matters either. ” 

Watson almost fell back trough the door when his dream-Holmes suddenly appeared right in his way, standing like he just waited for Watson, his hands in his pockets.

“Damn! I thought you were just a bad dream!”

“Well, I guess you could call me dream,” fake-Sherlock mused, “but I think it wouldn’t be a completely accurate description, since you are obviously awake.”

“Won’t you just leave me? Please.” John felt suddenly very tired again and leaned against the doorframe.  
This was just too much.   
Maybe he should be happy, if he can’t have the real Sherlock Holmes, at least he got a made up imitation.  
But the thing it, he didn’t want an imitation.   
He went around ‘Holmes’, because really, walking trough him would be way to creepy, and flopped down on the couch. 

“I thought we established that already, doctor, I can’t just leave. And you should stop ignoring me, besides the fact that it has proven to be rather pointless, it is also very rude indeed.” Not-real-Holmes said with raised eyebrows, following Watson “ Now. Maybe if you thought about why you felt the need to make me up, then I’ll finally rest in peace.”

At the last word, Watson couldn’t help but cringe “Don’t say that.” he whispered, tone defeated. 

“Why not? You know I can’t have survived that fall.” This Holmes, like the real one, went straight for the fact this time.

Of course he knew. But couldn’t he pretend a bit longer?

“You are a man of great intelligence, Watson, it is time to accept what happened, and to stop being so daft. Foolery does not suit you, mon frére.” 

The imagined detective was right in his face now, leaning over him almost menacingly. His words felt like physical punches but damn, John new he was right.  
Maybe two days were enough time for ignorance and it is time to face the cold, hard and painful truth.

He waved the transparent detective away, because he really didn’t want to go trough him, leaned forward and rubbed his face with his hands, then running them trough his short hair.  
Finally he looked up at his illusion, who now stood beside him, looking expectantly.

Watson sighed, “Ok, you are right. I know you won’t…” his voice caught a little in his throat, but he didn’t cry, “I know you won’t be waiting for me in London. Or…or anywhere else. Sherlock Holmes is dead. Happy now?” 

The face of the conjured detective morphed from serious to a self-satisfied grin in a flash.

“Ecstatic.” 

John leaned back again, head tilted back and eyes closed. He’d just gotten out of bed and already he felt exhausted again.  
The doctor wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Of course it hurt. It hurt like hell, that his best friend was gone. Dead. Had left for a place where he couldn’t follow him that easily.  
Yet, he also felt a burning in his gut, something he couldn’t describe. And shouldn’t he feel the need to cry? Maybe even feel guilty? Because on the balcony he hadn’t hurried to help Holmes, but stood frozen at the door for a moment.

Honestly? Admitting that his friend did die didn’t make this any easier.  
John knew what he should feel, he should be inconsolable, mourning the death of his brother. Maybe he was still in denial? No. He knew Holmes was dead.   
Probably he needs time. Sometime it will hit him. He is sure of that.

But what to do now? By all means, he should finally leave this room. That was a plan.

Suddenly he noticed the silence and opened his eyes. He was alone. Maybe really all it took was coming out of his little hole.   
John couldn’t help but feel a bit sad now. He wanted that Holmes imitation to leave, really, but… he could have at least said good bye.

The doctor pushed himself up and went back to the bathroom, this time, to change into something decent.

He spend some extra time in front of the mirror, not wanting to look like someone who’d been in a two day depression and then had seen his dead friends ghost…Illusion, whatever.   
Deeming himself presentable, he made his way back to the living room.

“You look splendid. That’s the Watson I know.”

And for the second time that day, his own imagination almost gave him a heart attack.

 

 

“Holmes!” he hissed, getting his bearings and annoyed to be caught off guard again, “What are you still doing here?!”

“If you don’t know, how should I know? No need to get snippy.”

“Oh so the great Sherlock Holmes admits he doesn’t know something?” Is he really arguing with himself right now?

“Hey! To be fair, I’m limited to you capacity thinking!”

“So now you saying I’m dumb or what?!”

“Oh for crying out loud, Watson! Don’t put words into my mouth and calm down, man. You know that is not what I meant. This is not very productive.”

And again, the fake Holmes was right. So he took a deep breath and calmed down.

“Fine, I am calm.” He breathed, “But I don’t understand. I thought the reason you were here was because I wasn’t acknowledging your death.”

“Obviously. That is not the case. And don’t look so accusingly at me again. Do you think it’s fun getting ignored or snapped at by you? For your information. It is not.”

For a moment there the detective looked like a petulant child. His arms crossed and eyes narrowed to slits, glaring at Watson.

The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming.

“Stop being dramatic.” He sighed with no heat. “Ok it seems I have only to options left now.” He rubbed his brow, “Either I embrace the fact that the loss of my friend has driven me to insanity and I now have to live with an unreal Holmes, hunting my every step. Or, I try the ignoring again.” He looked into the other mans eyes, seeing the furniture behind him trough the translucent form. “Forgive me for choosing the letter.” And with that he grabbed his cane and walked out room without looking back, closing the door firmly behind him. 

*** 

John found Mycroft at the dining table, eating breakfast, reading the newspaper and looking terrible.   
He was clothed perfectly like always, hair combed back neatly, but the older man had heavy rings under his eyes.

“Ah, doctor. I was wondering when you decided to join the world again. I take it you came to terms with the… recent events? Please sit, and have a bite to eat. You look terrible.”

Watson managed a polite smile when the older Holmes looked up from his readings and took a seat on a chair on the other side of the table.   
This time he didn’t startle when he saw his annoying hallucination sitting down as well on a stool at the corner of the room, watching them unabashed, pipe back in his mouth. He trough Watson a slight smile. 

“You didn’t really think I would wait in your room, did you?”

John turned away and back to Mycroft without answering, making good of his promise to ignore and also upholding his dignity by not talking to a not present detective.

“Yes, Mycroft. I’m sorry that I wasn’t of any help, these past days. Do tell, have they…did they find him…them?”

For a second there, he saw a shadow pass over the usual stoic face, a sight so unfamiliar when it comes to the man, that he turned his eyes away, not able to see Mycroft’s sorrow, even if it’s displayed only so little. Instead choosing to look again at ‘Holmes’ who now stood beside the older Holmes, scrutinizing his face intently.

“You know. I think he takes my death better than you.”

Watson narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything.  
“Yeah, I know what you want to say, ‘He is a Holmes, Holmes. You are not really known for putting your emotions on public display’ and you are right with that. But… he may look tired, but still somewhat at peace. I’m sure he accepts the death of his brother, and had mourned rightfully. Tell me, Watson, why can’t you do the same?” 

He opened his mouth to reply unwillingly, but was stopped by Mycroft.

“Doctor?”

To judge by the tone, the remaining Holmes must have called him before, so he quickly fixed his gaze back on the man.

“Pardon?”

He winced when Mycroft let his eyes wander suspiciously to the spot he had been looking at moments before. So much for acting normal. 

“What did you say, Mr. Holmes?” he quickly tried to bring the man into the conversation. 

“uh, yes,” Mycroft looked back at the doctor, but if John wasn’t mistaken he could see something like… understanding in his face? No, he must misread this, for he didn’t even understood himself.  
“I said no, I am sad to say that they have stopped the unsuccessful search earlier this morning. Neither my dear brother, nor the…the Professor have been found. I’m sorry.” Mycroft and Sherlock may have been brothers by blood, but the older Holmes understood the strong friendship his little brother had going with the ex-Soldier.

Watson swallowed hard and nodded. He’d at least hoped they would have a body to bury.  
He looked down at the food but wasn’t really hungry so he just poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher.

“You need to eat, dear fellow”

He drank slowly, eyes following the illusion of his friend on their own accord . He was walking trough the room, looking here and there, just keeping busy. 

“Tell me, doctor, was Sherly a constant companion while you stayed in your room?”

“No. I didn’t see him until yesterday afternoon.” John replied absentmindedly, still watching the ghostly figure. Now he was walking back to Mycroft, trying to poke him on the shoulder, only for his finger to vanish from sighed.

“You do notice, that brother mine just suggested that I am indeed here, do you.” He moved his finger up and down, seemingly fascinated. 

Eyes widening in shock, Watson realized that he was right again, and he stared in shock at the calm face of Mycroft. “Mycroft?! Do you see him as well?”

The bigger man gave a sly smile, “No I’m afraid not, but your statement proofs my theory.”

Feeling a slight blush gracing his cheeks, John stammered, “But then…how…”  
“It was not that difficult to notice that the death of my brother has affected you greatly, understandably, furthermore, when I went by your room yesterday I heard you talking to somebody, even though I was certain you were by yourself. And in addition I have to say you are a bit obvious, running your eyes around the room and starring at things of unimportance.”

Feeling his blush deepen, the doctor was still not quite convinced. “Still, you… you cannot have deduced just by that that I am hunted by an annoying alternative Sherlock Holmes.”

“Ha, you can’t take my brother for a fool, he is a Holmes.” His finger had found it’s way into Mycroft’s left eye “And, Hey! I’m not annoying.”

“Yes indeed, that alone would have made me wonder, but I wouldn’t have been as absolutely positive as I am. From there it took no effort to combine my observations with the fact that I myself was blessed with a visit from my dear brother, the evening after his tragic demise.” Explained Mycroft and took a calm sip from his tea, like they were discussing nothing but the weather. The Holmes brothers were physically very different, but man, in other ways so obvious alike.

“Just to get this clear. You saw Holmes as well, yes? And you don’t anymore? So there is the chance he will vanish sometime? And most importantly, I’m not psychologically disturbed?” 

“Oh no, you are most assuredly not psychologically disturbed. No more than normally anyway. I mean, no offence, but I know my brother and you stayed with him for a considerable amount of time, if you can catch my drift.  
Anyway, to your question yes, he can disappear again. At least my Sherly did. After a nice chat actually, didn’t stay very long.” Another swallow of tea.

Abandoning his observation in favour of burying his face in his hands in frustration, Watson answered, “But I already talked to him. He’s not leaving.”

When he opened his eyes again, the fake Holmes was standing in front of him, index finger just inches away from his forehead, he almost fell from the chair in his haste to get up. “Stop that!”

“But it’s most spellbinding. Watch my finger go into your head!”

“I’d rather you would completely vanish back into my head. And keep that finger away from me, that’s highly disturbing.”

Turning back to Mycroft, he threw his hands up in frustration “He’s driving me crazy!”

The older Holmes couldn’t help but chuckle slightly, “Yes, I can see that. But tell me, good doctor, have you just talked to him or have you really talked to him? You see, my brother vanished after I sized the chance to say my farewell to him. May I suggest you do something along the same lines? Honestly I have to tell you that I don’t think your wife will deal with your current behaviour that well.”

“Saying my farewell?” the frustration left him in a flash and even his Holmes beside him stopped the attempt to poke him and sobered up, giving him an understanding look. “I… I’m not sure if…”

“Of course, I wouldn’t do that here either. Why don’t you retire back into your room, and see if you can’t find the right words?”

Was he ready to say his farewell? Wasn’t the place for something like that a funeral, to pay his last respect?   
Accepting a death is one thing but to say goodbye a complete different.  
Still he gave a slight nod, not feeling like discussing this further and retrieved his cane, which he had previously leaned against the table.

“Before you go, can I ask you one question? Just out of curiosity.”

John looked uncertain, but nodded his consent.

“The Sherlock you see, is he his adult self? Like he was when he left this world?” he asked, one eyebrow raised slightly. 

“Uhm, Yes, he is.” He looked at the transparent Holmes beside him, “Minus his injury, thankfully.” The Holmes smiled.

“Yes, yes. That is proving another theory of mine. Thank you.” Mycroft then turned his attention back to his newspaper again, still lying on his lap. But now the doctor was curious. 

“Why do you ask? And what theory?” 

“Hm?” the older Holmes had obviously not counted on him still being there. “Oh, nothing of great importance, doctor. At first it confused me that when my brother visited me, he was ind appearance but a mere child. 8 again, if I remember right. But when I thought about it, it made perfect sense, since the both of us were much closer when we were younger. And since you knew him much better in his adulthood, it seems natural, that you see the grown-up version.”

Ok in a way, that did make it clear. And it warmed him just a little bit, that he had been closer to Holmes than his own brother in the end.

“Right, I’ll take my leave then, for now.” He said and made to leave

“One second again please,” made him stop again in his tracks, and a moment later a plate with bread and cold cuts was handed to him. “You need to eat, doctor, for I fear my brother will come and hunt me for real if I let you starve to death. 

With an thankful nod, Watson took the plate and left. Not-Holmes following behind closely. 

***

Back in the room he immediately went to the settee, sitting down and readied himself something to eat. Not hungry, but knowing that he had indeed not eaten for some time.

Imaginary Holmes claimed the chair he had occupied yesterday. They stare at each other, Watson silently eating, and finally the translucent man raised his eyebrow.

“Well? Are you going to pour your heart out for me, dear man?”

He took a bite from his food, and answered only after he swallowed.

“I’d rather not.”

“But you do want me to leave, don’t you?”

“Yeah, sure.” John shrugged. “I mean if you were the real… but you are just… yes, you should leave.” Or he would never really go on with his life. Had he been alone, maybe he wouldn’t have cared, taken what he could get. But he had Mary to think of as well.

“Then I suggest you take Mycroft’s well meant and tested advice, and, well…say goodbye.”

Watson took more time to talk, but already had half finished his bread. Maybe he had been more hungry than he thought.

“Yeah, the advice is good, but…I.. I don’t know how ok.”

How do you say your best friend, your brother, farewell? 

“My good man, and here you always said I was the emotional cripple.” Sherlock made himself more comfortable, his pipe came from wherever back into his mouth.  
“Maybe if you thought again about what happened, perhaps you know what to tell me then, for there must be something you have to tell me.”

“I don’t really want to think about it.” He said quietly and he was sure he saw sympathy in the other mans face.

“Of course you don’t want to, but I’m sorry, you have to.”

Having finished his bread, John stood up and started to pace restlessly. He had banished what had happened from his mind for a reason. It just hurt too much.

“After I left you, what happened?”

“Simza and I did our best to identify her brother. Successfully after some contemplation. I stayed back then to comfort Sim, but I wanted to come to you. I had a bad feeling from the moment we parted. Then the commotion when, Moran undoubtedly, killed René. I…I wanted to help you, but, first I needed to see if I could safe her brother from his fatal fate.”  
He didn’t stop pacing, fuelling the adrenaline he got just from thinking about it in his movements.

“Of course, old boy, that was your duty as a doctor.” 

Watson nodded but didn’t lift his gaze from the floor. 

“After I was sure I could leave Sim alone, I came to you, as soon as I could.” Something wet hit the carped and he touched his face, stopping in his mad pace. Tears, now he was crying. Now that the tears came he couldn’t stop. Ghostly Holmes suddenly in front of him and John stared in his eyes as he continued.

“I swear I came a soon as I could.” He whispered almost desperately.  
“I know, dear friend, I know”

“But when I finally made it to the balcony, it was too late.” the tears kept streaming down his face and he made no move to swipe them away. “I was too late. I just came to saw you push the two of you over the railing. And I couldn’t…I… Damnit, Holmes! Why did you do that?!” he was still crying, but suddenly he felt so angry as well.   
And now he knew what this burning was that he couldn’t identify earlier. He wasn’t only devastated by Holmes’ death but also so angry about it. 

“I was there! You looked me in the eyes. I could have helped you, you selfish bastard. Who gave you the right to be the martyr?!” in his sudden rush of anger he pointed his finger only an inch away from the other mans chest, punctuating his point. 

“Maybe you would have lost in a fight against Moriarty with your injury, but, damn I was there, if you had let go of that bastard, we could have fought him together, you stupid fool!”

John breathed heavily after his tirade, warm liquid still flowing down his cheeks unashamed. And as quick as the wrath came, it left again, and he was down to sorrow again.

His Holmes just stood and watched him not saying anything, accepting the rage, a look of sympathy back in his face. He didn’t offer words of comfort, or any answers, and how could he, a figment of his own imagination couldn’t know the answers only Sherlock Holmes could know.

“Damn fool.” John whispered again without heat, and out of instinct he tried to hug Holmes, to feel his comfort one last time, only to got through him, landing heavily on his knees.

“You left me, Holmes.” On the floor he wrapped his arms around himself and sobbed openly, “You left me behind, how could you do that? Don’t you know I love you? That you are my brother? That I need you!? How can I go on?” then his voice left him, but tears still kept on coming, and he couldn’t stop them even if he wanted.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, kneeling on the hard floor, head bowed, and crying like a little kid. 

Finally he looked up a bit, and saw Holmes sitting in front of him.

“I’ll miss you Holmes, even your annoying experiments, that you steal my clothes, that you still think I’m unhappy with Mary, our bantering, our cases, I will miss you. If there is something like an afterlife, I pray we will meet again there.” he sniffed.

And then, even if John wasn’t sure he wanted him to anymore, Sherlock Holmes started to vanish. The last thing he saw of him was a bright, pearly grin.

“I’ll miss you too”

And then he was gone. And Watson had never felt so alone in his life. 

He scooted with his back against the couch and stayed there, totally spend, until Mycroft knocked on his door, asking him to come eat some dinner. 

*** 

The next day they headed on home, and Watson had to admin, while it still hurt, and he had no doubt that the pain would remain, he did feel better after his little breakdown.


End file.
